KENDALL STEPS OUT.
One night Kendall did not come home, but as he had been talking of going
to St. Paul they were not disturbed about it--in fact, they both took
but very mild interest in his coming or going. In the morning, while
they were at breakfast, there came a knock at the door.
"Come in," shouted Anson in the Western way, not rising.
McDaniel, the county sheriff, entered.
"Where's Kendall?" he asked without ceremony.
"I don't know; went away yesterday."
The sheriff looked at his companion. "Skipped between two days."
"What's up?" asked Anson, while Elga stared and baby reached slyly for
the sugar-bowl.
"Nothing," the sheriff said in a tone which meant everything. "Come out
here," he said to Anson. Anson went out with him, and he told him that
Kendall had purchased goods on credit and gambled the money away, and
was ruined.
His stock of goods was seized, and the house was saved only through the
firmness of Anson.
Flaxen shut her lips and said nothing, and he could not read her
silence. One day she came to him with a letter.
"Read that!" she exclaimed scornfully. He saw that it was dated from Eau
Claire, Wisconsin:
Dear Darling Wife: I'm all right here with father. It was all Gregory's
fault--he was always betting on something. I'm coming back as soon as
the old man can raise the money to pay Fitch. Don't worry about me. They
can't take the house, anyway. You might rent the house, sell the
furniture on the sly, and come back here. The old man will give me
another show. I don't owe more than a thousand dollars, anyway. Write
soon. Your loving
Will.
She did not need to say what she thought of the advice the little
villain gave.
Anson went quietly on with his work, making a living for himself and
Flaxen and baby. It never occurred to either of them that any other
arrangement was necessary. Kendall wrote once or twice a month for a
while, saying each time, "I'll come back and settle up," and asking her
to come to him; but she did not reply, and never referred to him outside
her home, and when others inquired after him she replied evasively:
"He's in Wisconsin somewhere; I don't know where."
"Is he coming back?"
"I don't know."
She often spoke of Bert, and complained of his silence. Once she said:
"I guess he's forgot us, pap."
"I guess not. More likely he's thinkin' we've fergot him. He'll turn up
some bright mornin' with a pocketful o' rocks. He ain't no spring
chicken, Bert ain't." ("All the same, I wish't he'd write," Anson said
to himself.)
The sad death of Kendall came to them without much disturbing force. He
had been out of their lives so long that when Anson came in with the
paper and letter telling of the accident, and with his instinctive
delicacy left her alone to read the news, Flaxen was awed and saddened,
but had little sense of personal pain and loss.
"Young Kendall," the newspaper went on under its scare-heads, "was on a
visit to La Crosse, and while skating with a party on the bayou, where
the La Crosse River empties into the Father of Waters, skated into an
air-hole. The two young ladies with him were rescued, but the fated man
was swept under the ice. He was the son," etc.
When Anson came back Flaxen sat with the letter in her hand and the
paper on her lap. She was meditating deeply, but what was in her mind
Anson never knew. She had grown more and more reticent of late. She
sighed, rose, and resumed her evening tasks.